Chapter 71: Vengeful Prisoner
Li Wei and Leng Yue stepped into the swirling haze that cloaked the ancient crypt’s innermost sanctum. The hazy scent of ancient incense and plush clouds swallowed them whole as their footsteps clanged against tile-lined porcelain. Bitter wind shrieked through the skeletal gate overhead, sending chill tremors through the air. Beneath their breaths, they muttered low invocations—"May the Ancients light our path..."—yet dread lay heavy upon their shoulders.
Meanwhile, beyond these haunted walls, Li Wuji—a once-revered hunter of Blue Carp County—was locked in irons, and marched through Black Temple’s doom-laden archway. His once-lit form now moved with rigid purpose. Bound arms dug into leather with each step. Though his face was marred by spitting sneers of the guards, his eyes burned with a frost of malice so cold it could crack stone.
Bastards... his mind seethed, unseen behind the mask of controlled agony.
They hurled him into the cell with savage force. The iron door slammed, the reverberation rattling his bones like distant thunder. He spat into the gloom: "Bastards!" The echo swallowed his fury.
In that dim confinement, with ceilings lost to shadow, Li Wuji took careful inventory: rough-hewn stone walls, a narrow slit for light, and the stale stench of mildew. The air was thick with decay and despair.
"To think my own clansmen could betray so thoroughly." His memory unraveled the betrayal—false charges, seized property, his every honor stripped by those who once shared his blood.
He sank to the ground, cold stone pressing into spine and soul, and cradled the wound near his chest. It had been the final thrust of treachery. With a measured breath, he plunged his hand into the wounded flesh. Anguish roared, yet he did not flinch. He worked his fingers deeper, searching. Minutes inched by.
Then—clink. A hollow metallic ring. He halted, paused, then, with a calculated grimace, extracted the object: a crimson orb, cold and humming with latent danger. The world around him rippled as though the orb exhaled a silent exultation.
"Fools," he rasped, voice brittle with pain. "The Jie Clan prized only what shined. They left this... their doom."
Blood stained the orb’s magic-veined surface, but his focus remained unswerving. Within, a smoky tempest writhed: the precious essence of a Blood Deity—an Imperial Martial Saint’s quintessence: red as wrath, thick as fate.
Li Wuji studied it. A faint curl of hatred twisted his lips. "This will be the turning point of my fate." Steeling himself, he crushed the orb in his palm. It shattered, releasing a coil of smoke that slithered like living flame, filling the cell’s tight space. He trembled—not from fear, but from anticipation.
With a hoarse command, he whispered to the mist: "Come!" The red wind swirled, spiraled faster, then shot into his ear. White-hot pain bloomed, then cascaded into the marrow of his bones. In that silence, the stages of his cultivation leapt forward: from Origin Gathering to Qi Shattering seventh stage in mere breaths.